


The Retrieval

by Lucius Parhelion (Parhelion)



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1930s, Canine Guest Star, Golden Age Hollywood, Historical, M/M, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-01
Updated: 2011-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-21 17:26:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11362128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parhelion/pseuds/Lucius%20Parhelion
Summary: It's 1932. Charles Prescott Hunter, writer and occasional member of the Algonquin Round Table, has just arrived in Hollywood to secure his fiscal future with Cosmic Pictures. Jake Mor, a younger friend from Broadway days, is happy to help with details of the move. But Laura Moore, star of the silver screen and the other half of the terrible twins, needs a couple of quick errands run first...





	The Retrieval

I  
  
There weren't many people waiting for the Santa Fe Chief's arrival in Pasadena, and not only because the hour was so early. The Chief was a Pullman express, a pricey ticket in times as lean as October of '32 was shaping up to be. Those who still took the Chief tended to be the sorts who'd rather ride through to the grand Moorish station in downtown Los Angeles, where cub reporters ambushed anyone even slightly famous disembarking from a transcontinental train. After all, such tussles with the press were the first step of the Hollywood experience, proof that you mattered.

For his part, Charles Prescott Hunter would rather be excused. Well-known author or not, a desire to be noticed by reporters could be dangerous for men of his sort. And he'd just as soon keep quiet about yielding to the financial seductions of Cosmic Pictures. Even though this new work would be as honest – or dishonest – as any other writing, Charlie still thought it was silly to boast to reporters about his serving some movie company as the literary equivalent of a cloisonné vase turned into a table lamp. But this new job would also pay his bills with plenty of money left over, a strong attraction these days.  
  
The thin turnout here in Pasadena meant Charlie had a simple time spying his self-appointed chauffeur. As usual, Jake Mor was loitering in the back of the sparse crowd, with the cagey air of someone who expected to be quickly accosted and asked to justify his existence. Charlie would have blamed the attitude on too many unwilling hours spent in Hollywood studios if he hadn't seen a juvenile Jake behaving the same way backstage on Broadway while the twenties were still roaring.  
  
At least Jake visibly brightened when he spotted Charlie descending the metal steps from the sleeper car.  
  
"Hi, Charlie!" Jake's shouted greeting sounded cheerful, too.  
  
Once he'd reached the platform, Charlie turned to take his suitcase from the sleeping car attendant and tip the fellow before getting out of the way of a local matron and her matched set of annoyances masquerading as dyed calfskin luggage. After that, he got to keep his own bag for about fifteen seconds before Jake snaked past the other passengers and their porters to grab the worn leather handle of Uncle Prescott's old Moroccan case.  
  
"Now, now. You don't have to play porter for me." Hopeless, but Charlie felt duty-bound to try even as he released his grip.  
  
"You bet I don't have to. But I'd want to help you even if I wasn't going to ask you for a favor, which I am." Jake's smile was likely warmer than he knew it to be. "Come on. Let's go find my parking space."  
  
Perhaps it was whatever favor he needed that explained the return of Jake's glum and wary manner as they walked to his automobile. Not even the convertible Cadillac coupe they stopped at cheered Jake's gloom. But no matter the mood, some wheeled shrines of the modern age demanded universal reverence even from automotive heathens like Charlie. The dark green roadster before them was an inarguable beauty.  
  
"Exquisite. The '32 model?" Charlie asked Jake, who was stowing the suitcase in the rumble seat.  
  
"Uh-huh. A birthday present from Laura, of course, for our twenty-fourth. She really went overboard, but I think she felt guilty about what happened to my jalopy after I drove down to Tijuana to help give her boyfriend the old heave-ho. He thought they were getting married and wanted to make clear before the wedding bells who would wear the trousers. What a jerk."  
  
"Which jerk was he?" Charlie glanced briefly at the passers-by, all potential eavesdroppers. "That famous, well-muscled movie star she wrote me about?"  
  
"Not him, the band leader. Mr. He-Man is still around. He's okay if you ignore how he believes his own _Photoplay_ articles. If I ever caught Laura doing that, there'd be hell to pay. But she won't."  
  
"No, she won't," Charlie agreed. Laura was Jake's fraternal twin, so he likely understood her as well as any male ever would. And even Charlie, who'd only known the pair of them since they were both sixteen, thought Laura too practical to buy into most of the nonsense that went along with Hollywood stardom. She was still as much a Broadway canary as a movie star who sang, and singers tended toward realism.  
  
Jake, who'd slipped into the driver's seat while Charlie climbed into the roadster beside him, now gripped the steering wheel with both hands and sighed instead of reaching for the starter.  
  
Charlie felt himself frown. "Permit me to return our conversation to that favor you want. Given how you're behaving, it must be a wonder."  
  
"Oh, it's a lollapalooza, all right. Particularly since I was supposed to be the one doing you a favor, looking around for places you might like. I meant to show you a lot of nifty real estate today, none of it too far from Cosmic in case they force you to come in and work on screenwriter's row. Then I thought we could catch up on the news before we headed over to Laura's for dinner. Afterward, we'd decide where to store those trunks you shipped, and then she'd refuse to let you use the hotel reservation I'd bet you didn't make in the first place."  
  
"No, I didn't bother. By this time, I know better. The favor?"  
  
"Two favors. Okay, three favors, but you could enjoy the third one, so it might not count."  
  
After pursing his lips to hide his amusement, Charlie said, "I feel compelled to point out that you're not getting anywhere with all this stalling."  
  
"Yes, I am. A passing airplane might crash into us before I have to explain."  
  
That earned Jake a snort.  
  
A smile flickered on Jake's lips, but it was gone before he said, "Anyhow, all three favors are related. First, or maybe third, Laura wants you as her escort this evening. She's going to a birthday party for Henry Lowery, who's a big noise at Cosmic. You'll have to be sophisticated, witty, and charming after a long train trip, but you're familiar enough with that brand of baloney to slice it in your sleep. So, you might have fun."  
  
"Have fun talking in my sleep. And I suppose I'll be well fed, too. As I slumber."  
  
"The food will be about as good as it gets in Los Angeles."  
  
"How lovely. And where will you be during this whoopee-fest?"  
  
Jake grimaced. "Right alongside you, pal. Mrs. Henry Lowery likes having me at her table to even up the girl-boy numbers although I don't know why. Do I look like a movie star?" He'd taken one hand from the steering wheel to jab a thumb into his own chest, right over his only-slightly-atrocious tie.  
  
That was the cue for Charlie to consider Jake at length. It was a pleasant task, especially given the eight months that had passed since their last meeting.  
  
Jake kept himself lean and fit although his tanned complexion was a gift to him from the Southern California sunshine. Whenever his hair looked this good, Laura had made him get a haircut, but the dark and combed-back waves were attractive nonetheless. Jake also had long and graceful fingers, fingers currently drumming the steering wheel, ones which hinted at an additional charming attribute not visible to the public or to Charlie, for that matter. However, Jake's features, although symmetrical enough for the cameras, were too sharply defined for him to play the hero's roles. And his oddly pale brown eyes were a big strike against any potential screen glamour, as were his all-too-vigorous gestures and his overly-animated expressions.  
  
Shaking his head, Charlie said, "No, you don't look like a talkies star. Maybe someone from the silents. A character actor, perhaps."  
  
"That'll be the day. As I said, not a star and not anyone else with influence, either. There's no reason for Mrs. Lowery to want me around that doesn't mean trouble." Jake turned his face forward and frowned at the windshield so alarmingly that Charlie was glad they weren't already driving. Jake's expression would have been too much for a bad second feature, let alone for the sort of police officer who directed traffic in Pasadena.  
  
"I will admit," Charlie said, "a dinner party doesn't sound especially dire, only wearying. And I do need to meet more people in Hollywood than immigrants from the same old Manhattan literary circles. That being the case, what other delights does this day promise to put you into a state theatrical even for you?"  
  
In a movement that should have caused neck pain, Jake whipped his head around so he could glare at Charlie from point-blank range.  
  
Charlie met the indignant gaze with ease, raising his eyebrows in what he hoped was mild inquiry. He'd long ago realized Jake's all-too-compelling dramas could be trouble and had meant to stay far, far away. It was the terrible twins who'd insisted on drafting him as their stand-in for an older brother, back in Manhattan. That being their decision, they would have to keep enduring his meddling out here in Hollywood just as Charlie would have to keep tolerating their continuing chaos. And the unsettling pleasures of Jake's company.  
  
Yielding ground, Jake grimaced. "You know something about old furniture and knick-knacks."  
  
"A bit. A tiny bit, in fact. I never made any sort of official study of antiques; my general familiarity is only a lingering symptom of Boston Brahmanism."  
  
"A tiny bit is more than I know. We're picking up a birthday gift for Mr. Lowery. Laura's hoping you'll inspect the items before I hand over her check, to be certain she isn't being too obviously conned."  
  
Wonderful. Charlie allowed himself to slide down in his seat. It certainly was a comfortable and luxurious seat. "At least you're realistic about what I can do: put on a show of knowledge."  
  
"Keeping up a decent façade matters in this town."  
  
"Fine. Since I'm browsing for my breakfast and speaking for my supper, I'll want a superb lunch."  
  
"During which you'll eat two bites while giving me an earful about Thornton Wilder or some fellow like that." Jake started the roadster at last. "No wonder you're always so stringy. More catgut than cello over there." Given the affection in his tone, no one could have mistaken Jake's wisecrack for anything other than one of the standard taunts that insulated warmth between males.  
  
Charlie made his own retort as mock-imperious as he could to hide both a wistful twinge and his smug satisfaction. "Desist from your feeble efforts. Your puerile judgment of my physique leaves me unmoved and undistracted. Do not delude yourself that this attempted diversion is keeping me from noticing that your second favor remains unexplained."  
  
"This is me tackling one problem at a time. My second favor will show up soon enough."  
  
"Well, goody, goody. I can hardly wait."  
  
"Oh, yes you can. But will my favor wait for you?" Jake asked, doing a decent job of playing cryptic.  
  
***  
  
As was increasingly the case with popular New York writers, Charlie had visited Hollywood enough times to be slightly familiar with the Los Angeles landscape. But he didn't have anything like Jake's feel for the area, given that the twins had been out here since sound in pictures suddenly made pretty singers valuable property.  
  
To Charlie's eyes, Jake was motoring down miles of indistinguishable highways and byways between brush-covered hills and intermittent clusters of modern buildings. Young palm trees lined several of the straighter streets, but palm trees were always nearby in Southern California. As were rows of eucalyptus trees and beds of out-of-season flowers, none of which helped identify particular locations.  
  
Charlie wasn't too proud to ask, "Where are we?"  
  
"Approaching Silver Lake. I mentioned the area when I wrote to tell you about neighborhoods you might like, remember? It's the one east of Hollywood where artsy types are moving in. There's this fellow with a house not too far from Walt Disney's studio who makes his money importing furniture and knick-knacks for the Hollywood crowd. Since the older shops for the Pasadena and Downtown money get haughty about movie colony styles, he's doing okay."  
  
Jake's expression slid from content toward sullen, which unfortunately made him look like a third-string Latin lover. "Los Angeles is full of snobs. I swear, one of these days I'm going to slug some–"  
  
"Oh, calm down. Lower your fists, and enjoy the show instead. Before the Revolution – our revolution – all my swanky ancestors were merely pretentious New World merchants trying to play British squire by commissioning copies of Chippendale. Two generations ago, it was the western magnates who lacked refinement and bought like barbarians." Charlie smiled to take some of the sting out of his lecture. "Now those same families are snubbing the studio chiefs and conveniently forgetting all the elephant-foot umbrella stands and hair-work brooches their grandparents bought. As for the rest of the so-called vulgarity their ancestors enjoyed, we now view it as the best art of its times. Today's no different. Once you realize what you're watching, aesthetic condescension is to laugh."  
  
"I'd laugh harder if the snubbing was only over new moolah and crude tastes."  
  
Charlie considered Jake. He knew the Mor ancestors weren't anywhere near as Anglo-Saxon as they might have been. "Someone's been playing a round of 'those _people_ in Hollywood' while you were within earshot?"  
  
"Try lots of someones."  
  
"Well, now." Charlie tried staring upward in search of an adequate answer. He didn't find it. Still, he tried. "Such attitudes also change, but admittedly at a caterpillar's creep. You'll note no one jeers at Dutchmen and Germans these days, much. And I do believe hewing to a humorous perspective, when possible, imparts an air of baffling superiority more maddening to the snobbish than outright hostility will ever be."  
  
Brows knit, Jake considered this. "Okay, I've seen that happen." The concentration gave way to a smile. "You know, this is one reason I like your being in town. You make sure my head is screwed on straight."  
  
"All that requires is a small enough screwdriver and some watchmaker's oil."  
  
"Uh-huh. Watchmaker's oil." The variety of amusement in Jake's smile somehow shifted, but at least it didn't vanish. Then Jake cleared his throat before asking, "Would you get the street maps out of the pocket on the passenger door? I don't know the exact location of the house we want. Usually Laura's studio secretary picks up the goods for her."  
  
"Hmm," Charlie said as he groped around. Something about Jake's latest expression niggled at familiar suspicions, but the atlas he'd just found was distracting. " _Miller and Miller Popular Atlas of Los Angeles County with Recent Street Additions_. Your company's work?"  
  
"And my pet project," Jake said, obviously proud. "Printed on middling-sized book pages bound with wire rings, so your maps won't blow around when you use them in your automobile. No problems with folding, either. Our standard and wall maps still sell better, but these are doing okay. I got a raise, and I'm already working on revising the maps for a second edition."  
  
"During this slump? Congratulations."  
  
"Thanks. See how hard it is to locate Vistaview Terrace."  
  
Charlie was pleased to report that finding a street in Jake's atlas wasn't hard at all, and they pulled up in front of Mr. Tildon's house about ten minutes later.  
  
Here was a fine example of the Southern Californian architectural idiom. The place was seemingly trying to embody some Midwest fantasy about quaint European cottages, what with those high-peaked roofs, wrought-iron railings, diamond-pane windows, and unneeded half-timbers. Ivy was everywhere. Instead of historic, the house's style ended up being brashly fantastic in a way that was absurdly… cute, for lack of a better word. Charlie found he was more charmed than aesthetically offended.  
  
Without checking to be sure he was being followed, Jake got out of the roadster and was half-way up the herring-pattern brick walkway before Charlie was disentangled from his seat. Behind the house, unseen dogs woofed warning as Jake rang the door chimes.  
  
Just as Charlie reached the front stoop, the door opened. A man, a lean and rather handsome blond of around thirty, had answered the chimes. His tweed coat complimented the domestic architecture, but he had the attitude of a visitor, not the master of the house, when he spoke.  
  
"Good morning. Can I help you?" As the fellow got a better look at Jake, he seemed a little startled.  
  
"Uh," Jake said. "You bet. I guess." He, on the other hand, looked like someone had beaned him with a brick.  
  
This man at the door was obviously not Mr. Tildon, but he was just as obviously someone Jake had met. For the sake of good manners, Charlie decided to intervene. Taking a step forward, he said, "Good morning. Is this Mr. Tildon's residence?"  
  
After a thoughtful survey, the tweedy man said, "It is. I'd imagine you–" he looked at the still stunned Jake "– must be Mr. Mor, here for Miss Moore's purchases." Then he cocked his head, his eyebrows ever so slightly elevated, awaiting his cue. He'd be right at home accepting a drink from another male in a certain stylish hotel bar off 45th Street after a hard day behind the counters at Bergdorf Goodman's.  
  
Oh ho, Charlie thought. So that's what Jake's stunned look was all about. Given this realization, the elbow he used to nudge might have been more roughly jabbed into Jake's ribs than it really needed to be.  
  
It still served to snap Jake out of his daze. He said, "That's me, Mr. Mor. This is my pal, Mr. Hunter. He wanted to have a look at the collection, especially the mallard duck."  
  
"The _teal_ ," tweedy man corrected, even as he moved out of the way to let them inside. "A mallard duck wouldn't be nearly as interesting as a _teal_. I'm Grayson Burke, Mr. Tildon's assistant. He had to attend an estate auction today and tenders his apologies. Please follow me."  
  
As they trailed after Burke into a living room decorated in the very latest style, Charlie managed to murmur, "A duck. Why will I be looking at a duck?"  
  
Jake had recovered enough to murmur back with a grin, "A _teal_ ," which nearly earned him another jab to the ribs.  
  
Charlie's question answered itself when they halted before the upside-down u-curve of the coffee table. On it, laid out in careful display, were the ancient and battered accoutrements of a duck hunter: a set of duck calls, two neatly stitched game bags, well-worn canvas waders, even a nicely painted, if faded, wooden decoy. Charlie could have been staring at odds and ends foraged from the attics of one of his elderly male relatives. But, no, these items had an individualism to them that hinted their owner had never shopped the hallowed halls of Abercrombie & Fitch. In fact, the equipment all seemed to be hand-crafted.  
  
"Folk art?" Charlie hazarded.  
  
Burke lit up so quickly Charlie might as well have replaced a burnt-out fuse. "Yes, a magnificent set with documented provenance to the 1860s. Some of the whistles are very likely older. As well, we believe the teal decoy was carved by a certain Mr. Lothrop Holmes, which makes it of special interest. His work is becoming collectable. A true master of his self-taught craft."  
  
Hearing those words, Charlie braced himself. Sure enough, it took almost an hour, and his examining every object on the table in detail as well as watching them all be packed into an also ancient wicker chest, to free himself from Burke's enthusiasm for authentic expressions of the native artistic genius rising toward fruition within the collective bosoms of their rustic American ancestors.  
  
"I may have to consider hurting you," Charlie told Jake when Mr. Burke had left the room to discretely dispose of Laura's check. Jake's initial, wary look gave way to obvious amusement when Charlie continued, "I suppose I earned all that with my homily to you about aesthetics, but his detailed veer into doting on eagle weather vanes was still cruel and unusual punishment."  
  
"We'll get your lunch after this. At least, we will if we don't have to head across town to–" Jake had glanced at his watch, and his expression was shifting toward alarmed just as Burke entered.  
  
Young Mr. Burke smiled at them coyly enough to support Charlie's opinion about the man's inclinations. "Now then, as to your other business. There are three desirable candidates here for you to choose between, but if you'd allow a mere acquaintance to suggest…" Burke's pause was discretion at its finest.  
  
"Great idea. I need all the help I can get when choosing desirable candidates," Jake said hastily.  
  
Burke's lips twitched but he stilled them before saying, "Really, Mr. Mor. It's in my interest to claim you make excellent choices, no matter which of your hobbies you might presently be enjoying. But, I'll fetch my idea of your best option." He bustled back out.  
  
When Charlie looked for an explanation, Jake's features were broadcasting a bout between amusement and outrage. After a struggle, outrage won and Jake burst out with "Did he just say that?" He turned to face Charlie and demanded, "Did he really imply what I think he did right in front of you?"  
  
"Might I point out that I'm not supposed to know enough about your previous acquaintanceship with Mr. Burke to answer your second question?"  
  
Jake seemed to deflate. "Oh. You bet. We never did have that talk I'd planned on, did we?"  
  
"We did not." Taking pity on Jake's visible chagrin, Charlie asked him, "Is 'that talk' one you've been rehearsing with yourself for a while now?"  
  
"No, with my shaving mirror."  
  
"Even better. I'm certain it will go well. Never mind. What – or who – is Mr. Burke fetching now?"  
  
"That second favor I mentioned? We're picking up some company for the party tonight, the last of Laura's gifts."  
  
As Jake spoke, Charlie heard footsteps in the hall made by more feet than just Burke's. "My Lord. What fresh hell is this?"  
  
Before Jake could answer, Burke came back in accompanied by – or accompanying – a dog. The dog was a tall fellow with a short grey coat and floppy ears, one who proceeded to sit with the ineffable air of amiable superiority you saw around Westminster Kennel Club shows.  
  
Bemused, Charlie only stared as Burke held out the leash. Jake, on the other hand, quickly got to his feet and took custody of the dog.  
  
Burke told them, "This is Uwe von Entejäger Kamp although, in this country, he'll condescend to answer to Ducky." Burke may have smiled at his own jest, but the dog was dignified enough that addressing him as Ducky did seem like an imposition.  
  
"I don't recognize the breed," Charlie said.  
  
"Weimaraner. They're almost unknown in the United States and quite rare over in Europe. Even the non-breeders like Ducky are very valuable."  
  
The dog – Ducky – was looking around the room, his ears now alert with energetic interest. He seemed quite prepared to go off adventuring with Jake and Charlie, only restrained from urging their immediate departure by good manners and the lack of proper introductions.  
  
"Hi, Ducky," Jake said, and offered a hand. Ducky considered this gesture, sniffed with stately interest, and then thumped his tail a few times on the geometrically patterned carpet. Resigned to his fate, Charlie rose to introduce himself as well.  
  
***  
  
As they packed the car a few minutes later, Charlie stepped aside to speak with Burke. "Will he be all right in the rumble seat?"  
  
"He's very well-mannered as long as he's had his exercise."  
  
"So Ducky returns when called?"  
  
"Oh, yes. He's been retrained to answer commands in English and knows the voice of authority."  
  
Charlie looked over to where Jake was fastening Ducky's lead to a seat strap behind the wicker basket while explaining something to the dog. The over-expressiveness that made diplomacy hard for Jake often worked well with children or pets. Ducky seemed to listen with the same air of friendly but intent concentration that Charlie would wager Jake got from his fellow mapmakers at Miller and Miller. Even so, Charlie asked Burke, "Then is there some park around here where we can let him run loose if we need to? I don't believe in keeping anyone so evidently smart and lively on too short a leash."  
  
"I can see that, Mr. Hunter. If you don't mind my saying so, you're wise." Although Mr. Burke's tone was demure, his eyes were amused as he glanced over at Jake and then away. "Although I don't think the Palace Baths are quite right for Ducky's days out. You might want to try Silver Lake's reservoir instead."  
  
Charlie suppressed a sigh even as he made a mental note about the name of that Turkish bath. He hadn't meant to imply– But Burke was obviously part of whatever served Hollywood for lavender social circles, as opposed to the miscellaneous fellows you met in parks and bars. And he seemed to have mistaken Jake for a young man with a patron's permission to roam.  
  
Well. Better that than him thinking Jake was both faithless and feral. Such rumors could cause untoward expectations in a place like Hollywood, those untoward expectations might lead to demands rather than requests, and demands rather than requests would summon Jake's fists as more than one of Laura's pursuers had learned. Burke's mistake had its uses.  
  
"Thank you, Mr. Burke," Charlie settled for saying, and held out a hand.  
  
"I hope to see you again soon, Mr. Hunter," Burke replied as they shook.  
  
"I'd imagine you will, given that I'm moving to Hollywood. Even though I'm sure I displayed my limitations when it came to scrimshaw, your modern décor was also intriguing. It's always pleasant to deal with someone who shares my tastes." They exchanged knowing smiles.  
  
When he got into the roadster, Charlie turned around to check on Ducky, who sat tall in the rumble seat next to the upended wicker basket, examining his new surroundings with interest, "You're doing well. Good boy."  
  
Ducky received his due accolade graciously. Charlie turned back to ask Jake, "Where to next?"  
  
Jake gazed at him silently, all of the wariness returned to his features.  
  
"Oh, don't give me that look. You're the one who just confirmed he's been busy changing teams." Safe enough to talk: the traffic was light and the sidewalks were empty now that Burke was returning inside. "If you believe I didn't have my suspicions even before meeting one of your recent playmates, I think I'm insulted."  
  
"Really? If you suspected, I wish you'd told me." Jake glowered while he started the car. "I could have used the news a lot earlier than I got it, and it's not like you didn't have a great chance to say something right after we first met."  
  
"What? You mean right after that proposition of yours?" On some level, Charlie was amazed he was raising his voice in public. "Are you mad? Jake, you were sixteen!" Then he craned around to check their surroundings again. No, they were driving through a quiet residential neighborhood.  
  
Jake still raised his voice right back, even if it was only to be heard over the engine. "So what? You were, I don't know, twenty-five?"  
  
"Twenty-six, as opposed to sixteen. I was too old for you even if you hadn't been offering up your all merely to keep Laura from doing likewise with my fellow backer because of his moronic ideas about how to cast that insipid rooftop review."  
  
"Trust you to get all that out in one breath." Jake snorted. "And, let me point out here, _The Nighttime Chorale_ not only paid back the stake you inherited from your uncle _and_ Kimble's wife's money, it made Laura's career. Once you'd forced Kimble and the producers to cast her."  
  
"Because she could sing, and because Kimble, the producers, and I had all agreed not to use the casting couch. He deserved any frustration he got after trying to cheat on our deal."  
  
"Doesn't change the fact you made them cast her. I would have come across for that, you know. Fair's fair."  
  
"Sixteen. Back then, your sister would have needed to look up the anatomy to find out where to start, and she still would have gelded me with a dull and rusty tuning fork."  
  
"Maybe," Jake said, although he had winced.  
  
"Likely. Don't forget, I know the pair of you. I know you both all too well. And I prefer to escort her to dinner parties while speaking in a baritone, thank you." Charlie narrowed his eyes. "Don't you dare tell me you weren't relieved at the time."  
  
"Maybe?"  
  
"Aroo," Ducky interjected, his half-bark, half-moan disapproving.  
  
"No," Charlie told him. "You do not get an opinion. You weren't present; believe me, I would have noticed."  
  
"I think he saw a cat at that last stop sign. Anyhow, 'maybe' is all you get. After you marched me back home to Hell's Kitchen, Laura asked me what I thought I was trying to do, and I couldn't altogether tell her. I had to wonder. Then, after I moved out here, and so many female extras were trying hard to cozy up to Laura Moore's brother, I had to wonder even more. 'How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable–'"  
  
"Thank you, Master Shakespeare. Good to know you paid attention to more than maps during those college classes."  
  
"I wasn't going to waste the money Laura gave me for tuition even if I was going to pay her back. Which I did."  
  
"Oh? You don't sponge worth a damn, do you? No wonder she's reduced to sneaking you gloriously ridiculous roadsters on birthdays when you can't refuse." Charlie took a deep breath and let it out. He had no right to complain, but since Jake had broached the topic– "I've been in and out of this town for years, you know, if you were so very, very curious."  
  
Jake got them turned right onto another hilly street curving off into obscurity. "Because what a suave and sentimental type like you needs is to give a pal a hand the first time and then have him upchuck afterward."  
  
That was a show-stopper. "Did you really vomit?"  
  
"Only because I was drunk as a skunk." Jake must have seen Charlie's wince. "Okay, maybe there were some nerves I tried to soothe with booze. I'm past all that now. Be grateful you missed the worst months of drama."  
  
"Since, being a suave type, I've never assisted you with any other little social difficulty. And because, although sentimentality is obviously not your cup of tea, as a trait it might suggest I could at least have helped you with the nerves." When Jake drew in a deep breath, starting to speak, Charlie raised a hand and said, "Don't press your luck."  
  
"I was going to say sorry."  
  
"Fine. You've said it. And now I'm taking a break to indulge in the additional traits of being petty, thin-skinned, and morose."  
  
After that, for several miles of town and countryside, silence reigned. Even Ducky was quiet in the rumble seat. However, Charlie's conscience wouldn't let him wallow too long when more important matters still needed to be discussed.  
  
Making sure his voice was calm, Charlie broke the silence by saying, "All right, enough sulking. You're certain?"  
  
"Now I am." Jake turned right off of some Hollywood commercial street or other before he added, "I don't mind, much. This being a Nance, it won't be too bad if I'm careful."  
  
"Not if you're also very lucky, but how did you figure this out on your own?"  
  
"On my own? I've been around Broadway or Hollywood most of my life. Once I'd swallowed hard – I know, ha-ha – I'd already learned I didn't have to be, what, slimy and evil? I could just be like you and some of the other fellas except with less fa-la-la and more sis-boom-bah."  
  
"You rehearsed that." Charlie twisted around to tell Ducky, "He rehearsed that with his shaving mirror."  
  
Ducky's noise was more of a moan this time.  
  
Jake bridled. "Did we or did we not settle the question of me not being an actor? So, no reviews accepted. Besides, we're almost there."  
  
"Almost where?"  
  
"To our noon appointment, to look at a house you might like."  
  
Charlie frowned. "What about my lunch?"  
  
"After we're done. First, we're going to follow this much of my original plan, come hell or high water."  
  
"How about starvation?"  
  
"Come starvation, too. This particular real estate agent is also my landlady. It'd be safer for me to snub Norma Shearer at the Cocoanut Grove."  
  
Having spent most of his adult life in Manhattan, Charlie couldn't argue against the importance of pacifying landlords. Resigned, he looked around the sparsely-built, hilly street. "And where are we this time?"  
  
"Not far from my apartment house, west of Hollywood above Sunset Boulevard. Lots of movie people live around here, including some of the Manhattan crowd. It's not as showy or expensive as Beverly Hills, and there's more of a nightlife." After vigorously thrusting out his arm to signal one last right turn, Jake pulled up to the curb. "Here's Mrs. Hurley."  
  
A rangy, elderly lady, who had been seated in a folding chair by the front steps of the house, rose to her feet. She extended a long arm to wave with zest. "Yoo-hoo! Jake!"  
  
"Hi, Mrs. Hurley!" It wasn't hard to sort out the mixture of affection and trepidation in Jake's voice. Charlie resolved to be charming.  
  
As she strode briskly over to the roadster, Mrs. Hurley was already talking. "Now, are you sure you want to view this particular property, Sweetie? The current owner means to sell, not rent. Anyone helping you buy is going to want onto the title. And I don't know if…" Trailing off, she lifted her tortoiseshell glasses and peered at the roadster from beneath them. "But who's this?" She was not addressing Charlie.  
  
"Oh, that's Ducky," Jake told her, already out of and around the auto to her side even as Charlie was still climbing through his open door. "Don't mind him."  
  
"I don't," she said, and beamed. Then, "Hello, gorgeous," she continued, not talking to Jake this time. She extended a multi-ringed hand toward the rumble seat.  
  
For a moment, Charlie had the oddest notion that Ducky would bow and kiss the back of her hand as he clicked both sets of heels. Instead the dog settled for a polite sniff and a soft, approving noise.  
  
"Aw, look at you," she said. "What a handsome fellow. Well, now I understand. You can't keep a big boy like this on a property without some room. Come along, you two, and have a look-see." Without another word, she turned and strode away just as briskly as she had approached.  
  
Jake opened his mouth and then, quite sensibly in Charlie's opinion, closed it without trying to catch Mrs. Hurley's attention. Instead he shrugged at Charlie and asked, "Could you…?" before racing to catch up with her.  
  
"It seems you're coming with us," Charlie told Ducky.  
  
Ducky stood up on the rumble seat and Charlie leaned in to unfasten the strap twined through the dog lead. After they had sorted themselves out on the sidewalk, Charlie commanded Ducky, "Heel," which earned him an intensely interested look as the dog came precisely to position at hip. Then they hurried to join Mrs. Hurley, who was telling Jake something about a detached garage along the alley to the side of the two-story house.  
  
This place was a little too large for a snug set of bachelor quarters, was Charlie's first thought. This place was ridiculously attractive, was his second. Oh, no one would ever mistake it for anything authentically Spanish, but all the tile roofing, hardwood floors, iron curlicues, and rounded corners still murmured Mediterranean to Charlie. He had a weakness for balconies. And the rooms were well-designed and well-crafted for the local climate, to boot.  
  
They finished their tour upstairs, in the largest of the three bedrooms, where Jake stood regarding the sunlight flowing in through the tall, south-facing windows as yearningly as if he were watching a shimmering image of Jean Harlow up on the screen at a picture palace. No, Gary Cooper, but the principle was the same. There wasn't a draftsman worth his salt who could resist this room. Up went the house's price by another two hundred dollars.  
  
Mrs. Hurley planted both hands on her hips. "Well, fellows, what do you think? Still considering buying?"  
  
Although it was obvious by now what the missing piece of Jake's shaving mirror conversation would have been, Charlie couldn't resist turning slowly to him and asking in dulcet tones, "I'm not sure. What do we think, Jake?"  
  
Jake almost blanched. Hastily, he said, "I think Ducky needs to go out and check the garden again. And maybe the courtyard."  
  
Ducky, who had been inspecting baseboards in nasal detail, looked up upon hearing his name.  
  
"Perhaps you two could talk over titles while we take care of business?" Jake asked as he cravenly retreated from the bedroom, Ducky in tow.  
  
The silence he left in his wake was brief. Mrs. Hurley turned to Charlie and studied him with care. "So, you two gents would be buying the house together?" Her eyes were shrewd, but at least they weren't immediately hostile.  
  
"I believe that's what Jake has in mind, yes."  
  
"He's a good boy, Mr. Hunter. Always on time with his rent, no loud parties, no overnight guests, helps keep up his apartment's share of the walkways and shrubs. But I guess you knew all that. He told me you're quite the friend of the family, almost an older brother except you used to date his sister." Then her expression altered slightly. "Say, do I know you?"  
  
Of course this would be one of the rare occasions when Charlie was recognized. "Do you subscribe to _The Saturday Evening Post,_ Mrs. Hurley?"  
  
Mrs. Hurley beamed. "I thought so. You're Mr. Hunter, the author." Offering him her hands, she said, "Honestly, _Shoot the Chute_ was the funniest book." That had been his first novel published all the way back in 1922. And the best work he'd ever done, damn it. "I really liked _The_ _White Way_ , too." At least his latest book might be second-best. And Mrs. Hurley also knew her light reading or at least agreed with Charlie's tastes.  
  
He shook both of her hands in his best, upper-crust speakeasy style. "Thank you. I could tell you were a lady of discernment. I suppose, given that, we'll have to lock up Jake to keep him safe."  
  
Charlie had judged correctly; this seemed to delight her. "Aren't you a rascal? Well, if you're out here to work for the studios, you'll need someplace quiet for your writing. That downstairs room facing west would be just about perfect. Let's go look at it again."  
  
The hell of the thing was, she was right.  
  
"You're right," Charlie told Mrs. Hurley, hearing his own resignation. "It's perfect. If Jake agrees, we'll need a second appointment after the inspections are done, so I can weep over prices behind closed doors."  
  
She patted his arm sympathetically. "That's okay. Jake had already made clear what you wanted badly enough to pay for, if you know what I mean. Someone should talk with that young man about showing all his cards."  
  
"Hopeless, I'm afraid, unless he's indulging in the drama of a flat-out lie. Which he wouldn't try with a landlady, especially you. Give me a minute or two to track him down and hear what he says."  
  
"Take your time. I have nothing to do after this but go to a luncheon with my bridge club."  
  
"I wish I could say the same."  
  
That earned him another maternal pat, and, "Young men forget to eat. You need a nice, hearty meal, and you'll feel better."  
  
Jake and Ducky were out in the small tiled courtyard, where the dog was considering, with the nose of a connoisseur, some cascading, red-flowered plant in a large, earthenware pot.  
  
On hearing Charlie's footsteps, Jake looked up and said, "This day's not going the way it did when I rehearsed it."  
  
"That's typical. Does Ducky intend to eat that plant or irrigate it?"  
  
"I think he likes how it smells." Without changing tones, Jake asked, "Did you mean what you implied upstairs or were you kidding?"  
  
Charlie considered; it was too important a decision for him to be mistaken. Rushing like this was dangerous enough. "Seemingly, I meant it." He shook his head. "Even though I'm not certain about what you're after aside from some excellent natural light and a co-owner you know can still pay his share of the bills in this terrible business climate."  
  
"Not that. At least, not just that, although I sure like this house." Jake's face was a study in frustration. "It all seemed so straightforward while I was practicing my arguments that I didn't stop to sort out what I was arguing for in the first place. Am I trying to stick you with a bum deal because I want a good place for my draftsman's table when I work at home?"  
  
"No, I don't think you are." Upon consideration, Charlie thought it more likely Jake was half-consciously angling for a domestic situation where he could manage discreet steadies. Laura's studio would have a fit if they found out about one-time flings at places like the Palace Baths. And Jake had that loyal streak of his, the one that had always curbed his backstage behavior for fear of what would ricochet into her reputation.  
  
Playing the harmless roommate would be a dull role for Charlie but a pleasant one, given his costar. And it wasn't like he wouldn't gain the same private opportunities as Jake. Perhaps they should tell people one of them was renting from the other?  
  
Realizing he'd decided, Charlie said, "Mind you, I get the downstairs study. And the larger of the two remaining bedrooms."  
  
Relief washed across Jake's features. "Well, sure."  
  
"Also, you will be the one to explain this setup to Laura. When I wrote her–"  
  
Jake looked utterly alarmed. "Oh, shoot!"  
  
"What?"  
  
"We're supposed to call Laura at one o'clock to tell her about those gifts for Lowery, while she still has time to make other arrangements if they're too phony." Jake checked his watch. "We have about a quarter of an hour to find a public telephone. Then we have to pick up my good suit from the laundry and give Ducky a run. Or maybe the other way around."  
  
"We also need to set up another appointment with Mrs. Hurley." Charlie narrowed his eyes. "Will I ever get my lunch?"  
  
"If all else fails, we can telephone from a drugstore, and you can grab a sandwich."  
  
"Wonderful." Charlie snapped his fingers for Ducky's attention. "Come." The dog came promptly to his side. "Sit." Ducky sat.  
  
"That's impressive," Jake said. "You've made it clear who's the boss."  
  
Charlie studied him balefully. "Experience tells me such first impressions never last long with the young."  
  
Jake rolled his eyes. "You'd be surprised."  
  
  
II  
  
Right now, there wasn't enough time for Charlie to brood about the morning's revelations. There also wasn't enough time for the long, vague, and boozy discussion of Jake's private life that recent events required under the unwritten code of masculine friendship, subdivision homosexual. At least there was enough time to find a public telephone booth, although it proved to be outside a greengrocer's rather than inside a drug store.  
  
The line was clear enough for Charlie to hear the laughter in Laura's lovely, lyric soprano when she said, "Given the harried tone to your greetings, I assume my purchases were duds."  
  
"Kiddo, what have I told you about assumptions? Your folk art is ancient enough to be burned as trash, and your temporary dog is regal enough to snub passers-by and make them like it." Even as Charlie spoke, he turned to look through the glass panels and check that Ducky was still securely in the rumble seat, benevolently ignoring the attempts of three young girls on bicycles to woo him. "If Tildon did lift your wallet, at least you kept your checkbook."  
  
"Oh, good. Then, what's the problem?"  
  
"Someone – now, who could that have been? – went and gave Jake chores when he already had plans. You know that means he's trying to do everything on both lists. When I show up at your house around three this afternoon, it'll be with my shield or on it. If it's the latter, apply taxidermy, put on my dinner jacket, and bring me along to tonight's party. They'll never know the difference."  
  
"Poor darling," she cooed, all fake sympathy and genuine amusement.  
  
"You say that now," Charlie told her darkly as Jake moved into his field of vision behind one of the greengrocer's picture windows. Jake was holding up a bunch of bananas in his left hand and a bag of oranges in his right, shaking them questioningly. Charlie pointed at the bananas. He loved both, but bananas would result in a neater lunch. "Just wait until you hear about what else your brother managed to cross off his list this morning."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"Don't bother wasting that ominous rising note on me. He and I have already agreed Jake's the one who's going to tell you about his latest escapade. But don't waste your time worrying, either. He's only working on his portrayal of independent yet responsible young man about Hollywood."  
  
There was an effective moment of silence before Laura sighed dramatically. She shared her twin's expressiveness, but she had honed it into a tool of exacting precision. Her voice was unmistakably, wryly affectionate when she said, "I keep telling myself how happy I am that he's not Mary Pickford's brother Jack, complete with snow-sniffing and spirochetes."  
  
"As you damn well should be."  
  
"I know, I know. But you have to admit that Jake can cause more trouble by being upright…" She corrected herself. "Saving me from triple the trouble at the exact same time. Darn it, they're calling me back onto the set. Can I talk to my very own Marx brother for a minute?"  
  
"I'm afraid he's busy buying me a banana."  
  
"Somehow, I've never seen you as an ape. Okay, Jake will have something new to tell me this afternoon. Given this evening's lollapalooza, I might be home early enough to hear it if we stay ahead of the shooting schedule. Until then, kisses all around. Don't you dare break my only sibling."  
  
"As usual, you switched around your subject and object in that last sentence."  
  
Her departing chuckle was both musical and sultry. The fact that it didn't arouse any base instincts was probably as good a confirmation of his sexual inclinations as Charlie was ever going to get. He hung up the receiver, smiling, and went to see how much fruit lay in his immediate future.  
  
The answer turned out to be a fair amount. Ducky seemed very willing to share the bananas, but they managed to dissuade him with a hasty side trip to a butcher's. That also resulted in a trip to a hardware store for a drinking bowl, at which point Jake gave up and provided Charlie with a swift motor tour of the area.  
  
"After all, you'll be around for a while, and you can't keep asking me where you are forever. When I'm not spending precious days off helping my migrating pals, I work for a living," Jake said.  
  
"I somehow can tell you distrust my navigational skills."  
  
"If most of the streets and avenues back in Manhattan weren't numbered sequentially, I would have spent a lot of gay hours retrieving you from Brooklyn and the Bronx."  
  
"Now you can send off Ducky to find me with a cask of brandy tied beneath his neck." Charlie turned briefly to smile at the dog who was presently licking his chops with judicious satisfaction.  
  
"There's a notion. Hey, Ducky, what do you say we go up into the hills and you can try outdoing a Saint Bernard?"  
  
Seemingly, Ducky enjoyed being consulted about plans for his future. He woofed pleasantly.  
  
"If Mrs. Lowery has any sense, she'll loan you to Cosmic to compete with Rex the Wonder Dog," Jake told Ducky, and headed them up past Sunset Boulevard.  
  
They had bought a longer lead at the hardware store, so it wasn't difficult to find an appropriate stretch of road a mile or two up one of the spur canyons past where pavement gave way to dirt. Ducky, who didn't seem to have been in Southern California for long, was obviously fascinated by these new surroundings with their unfamiliar smells. To give credit where it was due, he held to his training. But every now and then Charlie would stop and give Ducky formal permission to investigate something particularly interesting. He felt as if he were dispatching a senior ambassador to convey a series of strongly-worded ultimatums to various nations of gophers and squirrels.  
  
As they strolled along, keeping a watch on Ducky, the two of them chatted about people they both knew until Jake interrupted the discussion with, "I'm wasting my chance."  
  
"What chance is that?" Charlie received the latest report from Ducky before sending him off to inspect an oak tree.  
  
The frown on Jake's face as he waited was thoughtful, not impatient. "My first real chance to pry you open all the way. Everything's fair game now." His frown warmed into a smile. "You're a story-teller. Tell me some stories about yourself."  
  
"Why in the–" Charlie started to ask and then realized he was being foolish. He'd had a figurative finger in Jake's metaphorical pie for years. But, of necessity, Charlie had kept much of his own life to himself. And Jake had good instincts. He'd want to fix this imbalance in their friendship as soon as he could, now that neither of them needed to hide. "Well, all right. I could bore you with tales of my youth while we walk."  
  
"Was that a different youth than the one I had in Hell's Kitchen?" Jake asked.  
  
"Point taken. A very different youth and, as such, not boring to you. Therefore, let me describe the strange zoological garden that is Beacon Hill as seen through the eyes of a rather queer youngster."  
  
Charlie's own life lacked the order and meaning he built into his books, but it was still pleasant to shape the haphazard events into coherence, to watch someone else's reaction to all those long-lost days with Mother and Father, James, Ruth, and Uncle Prescott. Jake's looks became even more striking while he listened, which he did with attention and the occasional, good-natured wisecrack.  
  
As he considered Jake's irreverent opinion of Lacrosse, Charlie realized with a pulse-racing shock that he wanted Jake fiercely and now, wanted to pin him down while sampling with touch and tongue every stripped naked, formerly forbidden, inch of him.  
  
Well. Charlie was neither a saint nor a fool. He would have to proposition Jake soon and put the possibility firmly behind them both. But such a question would need to be asked after careful planning and with a light touch. Not even for the sake of his sporadic daydreams about getting his hands on the attractions concealed by those summer-weight trousers would Charlie risk upsetting a pal who could remember on a crowded day like this to offer a choice between oranges and bananas. Right now, Charlie needed to calm down.  
  
Bananas and oranges were Charlie's favorites, but Laura was a big fan of grapes. They might be able to stop by that greengrocers before they went over to her place and–  
  
With a start, Charlie interrupted both his wandering thoughts and his telling of tales out of prep school to check his wristwatch. "Jake, it's a quarter past three."  
  
"Oh, hell, my laundry. Ducky, c'mere!"  
  
The dog, who had been stretched out on a patch of dusty grass with the waywardly pleased air of a young noble successfully slumming, clambered to his feet and trotted over.  
  
"We have to be going," Jake told Ducky, putting the leash back on. "Heel, okay?"  
  
Apparently, heeling was, indeed, okay. The three of them hiked quickly back to the roadster and drove down to Sunset Boulevard before turning toward Beverly Hills to the west.  
  
As they turned again onto some north-south avenue or other, "Get my wallet out of my breast pocket and find the laundry ticket for my evening jacket, would you?" Jake asked. His eyes were narrowed and he had the look, if not the driving style, of a man competing for a Grand Prix trophy.  
  
Charlie shook his head even as he reached over to grope around inside Jake's suit coat. "This will save you, oh, thirty seconds?"  
  
"Thirty seconds here, thirty seconds there, pretty soon you have time to eat another banana." A smile flicked onto Jake's lips and away.  
  
Few things were as appealingly amusing as Jake determined to be on time. It was just as well that Jake was driving, his attention on the road. By the time they found the laundry's building, Charlie was wondering if he might be lost again, and not only among the streets of greater Los Angeles.  
  
***  
  
Laura hadn't run mad when she bought in Beverly Hills last year, but her property still wasn't anything that could be called inconspicuous. Her vaguely Italianate house was better than twice the size of the one Charlie and Jake had toured this morning and was shielded by a yard filled with well-tended hedges and young trees. Unlike at every other place they'd parked today, Jake's roadster didn't stand out. In fact, there was a second roadster on the brick drive in front of the front door. Aside from the second coupe's pale-green paint job, the two cars were obviously an identical pair.  
  
"Tell me she didn't," Charlie said.  
  
"You bet she did. But I think she got a good deal, buying them both after the guy who originally ordered them ran into business problems." Pulling up behind Laura's car, Jake shook his head and said, "They're why I was almost interviewed by _Modern Screen._ It seems that gifting your twin brother with a twin roadster would be viewed by most movie fans as engagingly adorable."  
  
"I'm sure it's a widespread fantasy, in these tough days, to have a successful and glamorous relative. Especially a generous one."  
  
"Hah. Having a sister who's a movie star is not exactly like being smacked by a board with a nail through its end. But, honestly? I'd rather own a Ford coupe and skip all the stares I get while I'm driving around to verify aerial photographs. The Cadillac gives a false impression."  
  
Charlie had a strong suspicion that Laura wanted Jake to give a false impression and get the deference from the famously impulsive Los Angeles police department that went along with it. He knew enough to keep his mouth shut about his hunch. In any case, Ducky needed to be escorted out of the rumble seat and checked for wear, tear, and ticks while he was dusted off.  
  
When the housekeeper answered the front doorbell, Jake said, "Hi, Mrs. Herbert. Laura back's early, I see."  
  
"Yes, Mr. Jake. She's in the study, working on her lines for tomorrow." Mrs. Herbert was too much of a professional to ask questions, but too good at what she did to bother keeping her gaze from visibly tracking across the wicker chest Jake was holding, past Ducky at heel, and up to target Charlie's face. "Good afternoon, Mr. Hunter." She almost – almost – smiled at him this time.  
  
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Herbert. Could you please ask Mr. Herbert to bring in my suitcase? And Jake has his evening clothes out in his roadster, too. I understand we're attending a dinner party this evening, and we'll both need to prepare."  
  
"So I've been informed. Would you gentlemen care to wait in the front parlor? I can bring coffee."  
  
"Could you? That'd be great, thanks," Jake said, and hurried in through the front door, obviously expecting Charlie and Ducky to follow. As they passed her, Mrs. Herbert's look might have been faintly interested as she studied Ducky again. Or it might have been a touch of indigestion. For his part, Ducky was eager to press on.  
  
During Charlie's last visit, a great many of the rooms had been sparsely furnished, if at all. Now he detected the professional hand of Mr. Tildon at work. "I like what Laura's done with the place. It's a lot less bland, more expressive of her personality."  
  
"When the studio had me playing gooseberry back in those Hollywood apartments, she seemed to think too much femininity in the rooms we shared would make my eyeballs bleed. Now that we're finally out of each other's hair, Laura can do what she wants." Jake rolled his eyes in a sibling's amiable disdain. "I guess that includes wanting lots of fancy blue-green pillows."  
  
"Oh? I like blue-green very much; in fact, teal may be my favorite color. What do you want aside from a draftsman's table? Orange crates? That horrendous armchair from your family's apartment in Hell's Kitchen, complete with umber upholstery? I won't say exactly what the shade reminded me of while I'm under your sister's roof. At least, not before the third round of drinks. Thank you, Mrs. Herbert."  
  
Sipping coffee and insulting decor kept them pleasantly occupied until Laura entered.  
  
Both Charlie and Jake rose to their feet. Charlie stayed standing as she threw herself upon him, entwining her arms around his neck in a seeming impulse that was likely planned to provoke. Jake sank back onto the couch with a grin.  
  
"My hero," she said, and kissed Charlie soundly. "Just in time to rescue me during my hour of despair."  
  
Holding out Laura at arm's length, Charlie inspected her. "No haggard look yet. I must have arrived early."  
  
"You wait." Her words were darkly portentous. "Mr. Lowery's fiftieth birthday bash should make up in strength for what it lacks in speed."  
  
"Don't worry. We brought home your bribes," Jake told her.  
  
"I noticed. Especially this one. Hello, sweetheart," Laura said as she approached Ducky. "Come to Laura."  
  
With a shake of those floppy ears, Ducky was up onto his feet with his docked tail frantically wagging. Whatever magic she wielded for purposes of enchantment, she'd used it again.  
  
"Oh yes," Laura told Ducky, mussing his ears with easy grace, "You are absolutely perfect. Yes, you are. Quite, quite perfect."  
  
Jake snorted. "After that kind of build-up, you'll be lucky if he doesn't eat three pairs of Mrs. Lowery's pumps and then upchuck into their swimming pool."  
  
"As long as he waits until after I've left," Laura said. "Not that he would. Would you, you darling?"  
  
Ducky gave her his most earnest canine assurances he would never, ever dream of doing such a thing, whatever such a thing might be.  
  
"The hunting equipment's all first-rate, too, but I'm not unpacking anything, considering the mess I'd make putting it back together again," Jake said.  
  
"All right. Then we might as well get ready." Laura checked her gold wristwatch before saying, "If we start now, there should be plenty of time. Jake, you'll be picking up your date in an hour and a half."  
  
"Joanne Siegal?" he asked with a frown.  
  
"No, Fran Cooper."  
  
"Better." At Charlie's inquiring look, Jake said, "Fran's one of the two or three starlets keeping steady company with Henry Lowery these days. Whoever evens out the boy-girl numbers at table gets to be his girlfriend's official escort if the male guest is plausible in the role. It helps Mrs. Lowery save face."  
  
"You like Fran," his sister said with a tiny touch of reproof in her voice.  
  
"Do I sound like I'm blaming her? On what grounds? We all know how this town works. And her family builds roads down in San Diego County, so we'll have something other than Hollywood to talk about. This wouldn't be too bad an evening if the whole affair wasn't a recognized studio function, meant to be reported on by the press."  
  
With a wince, Charlie said, "Well, that explains why my presence is required."  
  
Laura nodded. "Exactly. This will announce your coming to work for Cosmic. As an occasional guest at the Algonquin Round Table, you'll also add sparkle and tone. And you photograph well in a dinner jacket. Which reminds me, I had Mrs. Herbert unpack your evening wear from the trunks you're storing here and hang it up to air out in the blue bedroom."  
  
Charlie raised a hand in a way meant to attest to his resignation. "That's fine. You'd also better set aside a quarter hour to brief me about who else will be in attendance and what I'm not supposed to know about them. All I would need as I start my studio contract is a hors d'oeuvre of foot-in-mouth."  
  
"Speaking of snares for the unwary, I think someone is supposed to be telling me about your day out on the town. Isn't that right, Brother Dear?" Laura's frown was gentle but deadly. In Charlie's opinion, only long exposure allowed Jake to face her without quailing.  
  
Instead, Jake looked over at Charlie with hope in his eyes and asked, "Maybe Charlie could explain the details?"  
  
"Oh, no," Charlie said and shook his head. "There is me playing at older brother and then there is me letting you copy my Latin exercises. You will be explaining this venture into real estate all by yourself. I will be taking a shower and using my razor. Trains rattle too much for a shave close enough to get me through a Hollywood dinner party."  
  
After a boy scout salute to the pair of them, he strolled out of the parlor in what he hoped wasn't too obvious a flight. As he left, he heard Laura say, in low, ominous tones that would have thrilled movie audiences from coast to coast, "Okay, Stinker, now that it's just you and me–" before he closed the door on them.  
  
Phew. That had been a close call. **  
  
** When Charlie returned to the parlor a good while later, Jake was off somewhere, and Laura was seated on the couch in a careful curve that looked delightfully informal but actually would not rumple a single fold of the evening gown she wore. Her face was considering as she petted Ducky, who sat next to the couch within easy reach of her hand.  
  
Laura looked up when Charlie hitched the knees of his trousers and then settled back in the armchair across from her. "Impressive results, especially as an amateur effort," she told him.  
  
"Thanks to my long trip, it's a good imitation of the usual look of a Broadway intellectual on the morning after the night before. You're no longer used to a beleaguered and sophisticated pallor, living in a town this sunny."  
  
"That's not sophisticated pallor, that's just Boston blond. And respect the professional expertise, mister. I stand by my first judgment. Publicity will have no problems explaining you as my date." She waved an easy hand toward the drinks cart. "Do you want a Manhattan?"  
  
"Not if there will be wine at dinner. Something tells me I'll need a clear head tonight."  
  
"It shouldn't be too bad. They're not the Thalbergs, but keep thinking 'iron-clad professional partnership' whenever you look at our hosts, and you'll do fine."  
  
Charlie hesitated, studying her. Then he asked, "You aren't seeing anyone you'd rather have escort you?"  
  
Laura's smile was dangerously close to a smirk. "What, you mean my current paramour? The press would have a field day. He's supposed to be desperate to pop the question to Elaine Gray."  
  
"As long as you're happy."  
  
"I'm having fun. Although I'm surprised you're asking. After you identified the claws on the birds and the stings on the bees for me back when I was a green kid, I thought you gave up on guiding my love life."  
  
"When it comes to gritty specifics, feel free to spare my nerves."  
  
"Wise choice. You know I'm not in the running for the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval. I have a career to think about. And if I want to spend my leftover time worrying about some man, there's always Jake. Since I promised _maman_ to take care of him, he's the obvious target." Her tone was earnest when she added, "I'm awfully happy you're finally moving out here."  
  
It wasn't exactly a dodge to say, "You're well aware Jake made a promise to your mother about taking care of you, too."  
  
"Oh, sure. Did she manage to con one out of you about both of us? Lingering deathbeds are dramatic, and _maman_ certainly knew how to use drama to get whatever she wanted."  
  
Charlie frowned at her, glad he'd never been a guilty blusher. "A family trait."  
  
"You bet. From what little I remember, even papa could play the desert prince to his advantage. It was hilarious since _grand-père_ was actually some rich merchant in Tunis. Although Jake has both the charm and the earnestness of a Valentino or Novarro, so maybe that part of sheikdom is truely back in the blood."  
  
Now Laura's expression was as earnest as her tone. "Share lodgings with someone for nine months, and then keep that up for twenty-two years longer, and you understand a few things about him. For one, I've learned he's terrible at sneaking around to get what he wants, unlike the rest of us Mors."  
  
After a moment, Charlie said, "Please tell me you didn't arrange for my recent offer from Cosmic."  
  
"I didn't have to. Don't think I won't be first standing on line to play Phoebe if you manage a good adaptation of _The White Way_ , though."  
  
"But it's still hopeless, demanding that you keep that slightly retroussé nose out of my business, isn't it?"  
  
"When do I get to see this house of all houses you're buying with my brother?"  
  
The door to the parlor opened and Jake stuck his head through the gap. "I'm off to pick up Fran. Are you two leaving, or are you going to sit around and gossip for the rest of the evening?"  
  
"When I do it, it's gossip. When he does it, it's important information." Laura rolled her eyes even as she uncoiled from the couch. "I'll get my wrap."  
  
"I'll get Ducky." Charlie reached for the lead on a side table.  
  
Ducky promptly rose to his feet, but the look he gave Charlie was reproachful.  
  
Charlie shook his head. "It seems we are all slaves to duty around here, my friend."  
  
***  
  
"You drive," Charlie told Laura after a dubious look at her coupe.  
  
"I'm glad you realize we don't have the time for an accidental side-trip to Santa Monica."  
  
Sometimes the best offense was a good defense. "No, we don't. Especially since we'll need to go slow because of Ducky. And checking on him will mean keeping the top down."  
  
"So, also slow for the sake of my hair. Fine. I know good arguments when I hear them."  
  
At least they didn't have far to drive, since the Lowerys lived higher up one of Beverly Hills's canyons. Even Charlie couldn't have gotten lost.  
  
The gate to the Lowery house was decorated with iron scrollwork, its large courtyard was covered with patterned stonework, and the house itself was a huge, two-storied gray building that looked like a truncated French Chateau with a small side wing added to throw it completely out of balance. The result, if impressive, was annoying. Charlie had to admit to himself that he'd finally seen a house out here he actively disliked.  
  
They had driven up during a lull in arrivals. Laura had time to survey the grand staircase that swept up to the front doors with the intense but abstracted gaze of someone getting into character while Charlie gave instructions to one of the young men parking cars about transporting both the wicker basket and Ducky. After suitably bribing the attendant, Charlie also spoke with Ducky before handing over the lead. Then he made a tiny adjustment to his left cuff and looked over at Laura, who met his gaze with an opaquely bright smile. He offered her his arm. It was time to make an entrance.  
  
A uniformed maid showed them into the huge living room dominated by several couches, a grand piano, and the decent Persian carpet on the floor. A well-worn tapestry of hunting courtiers hung over the mantelpiece, filling the space between the windows on one of the adjoining walls and the landing across the other. Aside from that obvious antique, there was a lack of imagination to the rest of the French-styled furnishings that suggested a severe pursuit of social respectability. The guests were much brighter and more impressive than the room.  
  
Their host quickly broke away from a pair of studio executives to approach Laura and exchange sustained and doting hellos with her before offering drinks. Mr. Lowery was a lanky man with an appearance crafted largely from u-shaped curves. He had an air of edgy pep about him and was the sort of fellow who always seemed to be sitting at the head of the table no matter where his chair was located. Charlie would wager Lowery's bite was worse than his bark.  
  
However, Lowery's wife was a subtler challenge. During the drive, Laura had warned Charlie that their hostess was one of the first stars of the silent screen still playing her greatest role. Mrs. Lowery, in her late thirties, had kept dark looks dazzling enough to easily attract a society court in any other small city. In Beverly Hills, she might dominate her surroundings, but competition made her position more laborious than effortless. The local gluts in the charisma and beauty markets ruthlessly reduced their usual value, especially for older women.  
  
Mrs. Lowery had mastered the fine points of her role. Her greetings to Laura and Charlie were appropriately, warmly aristocratic, and she put on a good show of having read Charlie's books. She could also rise to meet a true challenge. When Jake and his date came in about a quarter hour after Laura's arrival, Mrs. Lowery's greetings to Miss Cooper was regally friendly, an impeccable job of acting. However, the way she welcomed Jake made Charlie narrow his eyes. There was something subtly possessive about the quality of her attentions that was alarming.  
  
A few minutes later, Charlie grabbed a rare chance to get Laura all to himself. He steered her over to where French doors stood open in the high wall otherwise dominated by windows. A cool evening would provide both the excuse for their huddle and an approximation of privacy; the air felt pleasant to a recently arrived New Yorker but was almost chill to anyone whose blood had been thinned by Los Angeles winters.  
  
Charlie murmured, with a smile he hoped didn't seem as fake as it felt, "I thought Jake was only being dramatic when he complained about our hostess."  
  
"Just because Jake's dramatic doesn't mean he's dim," Laura replied as she unnecessarily rearranged Charlie's boutonnière, her own bright smile never wavering. "But he also couldn't hide how his sympathy for Mrs. Lowery made him like her. At least, he liked her before she spooked him. Although his wariness came too late. Don't worry; I'm dealing with the matter."  
  
Charlie regarded her with wariness of his own. "You're not carrying a rusty tuning fork with you this evening, are you?"  
  
"Darling, don't be cryptic. Someone around here will read it as cleverness at his expense, and you'll end up writing second-feature scripts about humorous rubes chasing pigs through State Fairs."  
  
Right then, the general migration toward the dining room began, and Laura gave Charlie an admonishing look before taking his arm.  
  
Charlie got through the meal by recounting well-worn literary anecdotes to his neighbors and mentally reworking the people he was eating with into minor characters in an unprintable novel. It helped that Laura was on what passed for her best behavior. Even when she was talking with the actress Ingra Songaard, who was both a smolderer and an obvious handful, Laura stayed cheery and polite.  
  
After dessert – Biscuit Tortoni, and, as promised, quite good – they all returned to the Lowery's living room where a pair of photographers took pictures of attractively posed clusters of guests. Then the photographers left and the company relaxed into only slightly less attractively posed clusters as they talked politics and box-office returns. The stances were instinctive; most of the people in the room had the constant awareness of being observed that went with being either star performers or studio powers.  
  
Laura drifted over to exchange smiles with Fran Cooper and give some low-voiced instructions to Jake that ended with him leaving the room. It was the only clue Charlie needed to know that the time for tribute had arrived even if the soft-footed reappearance of the photographers hadn't been a give-away.  
  
The gifts to Mr. Lowery struck Charlie as rather expensive and extremely obvious. He thought Miss Songaard's sterling silver pheasant was nice, but most of the other presents seemed forgettable. However, under the influence of this birthday bribery, Lowery was relaxing at last, smiling genially from where he'd settled into a bergère armchair to one side of the largest coffee table.  
  
Laura's gift was the last presented, likely because she was the biggest star in the room. One of the young attendants carried in her antique wicker basket. Seeing it, Mr. Lowery sat up straight. "What have we here?"  
  
"Something for your collection, perhaps?" Mrs. Lowery asked her husband with a fond smile. "I'm sure we could fit a few more display cases into your study if you're willing to sacrifice your windows." That earned some chuckles; Lowery's hobby seemed to be well known around Hollywood.  
  
Lowery was too busy unwrapping to respond to the teasing with more than another absent smile. He obviously knew his hunting accoutrements. By the time he'd revealed the teal decoy and studied it reverently, his smile had widened into a beam. "Now, here's a hell of a thing," he told Laura, setting the teal down on the coffee table for further admiration.  
  
"Happy birthday, dear," she said, planting a daughterly kiss on his cheek beneath the indulgent gaze of Mrs. Lowery. Everyone ignored the crinkling noises and brilliant flashes from the photographers' bulbs.  
  
Straightening, Laura turned in a swirl of skirt. "Oh, I almost forgot. There's one last gift." She made a broad and attention-attracting gesture toward the door.  
  
In came a maid with Ducky in tow. To Charlie's eyes, the maid was tugging Ducky's lead harder than she needed to, obviously nervous. Ducky was following along patiently but with his raised tail hinting at his strain, and the passing look he turned toward Charlie was tragic. Even so, his appearance led to a predictable chorus of oohs and aahs, especially from the female guests.  
  
The maid unclipped Ducky's lead, set it on the coffee table next to the other gifts, and hastily retreated. Charlie started to move toward the dog, but Ducky sat without being commanded.  
  
"Who's this?" Lowery asked, still pleased but obviously a little bewildered.  
  
"Yes, he's a darling, but who is he?" Mrs. Lowery chimed in.  
  
 "Uwe von Entejäger Kamp," Laura told them, doing a decent job with the pronunciation. "He's a Weimaraner, the most aristocratic and exclusive of the gundog breeds. I'd heard you wanted someone like this around the house, a handsome creature who was smart, affectionate, and could be walked on a tight leash." The way Laura's flourish directed the crowd's eyes toward Ducky even as her gaze met and held Mrs. Lowery's was a brilliant bit of craft. "Although I'm afraid he can't be bred, he's the best alternative I could offer you."  
  
Mrs. Lowery's expression was still friendly, but her lips tightened ever so slightly at this little speech.  
  
"He's something, all right," Mr. Lowery said, his voice admiring even as he shook his head. "And I sure wish I could keep him. What a prize for my collection. But, Laura, you heard wrong; dogs make me sneeze."  
  
"Oh, no," Laura said, raising one hand to her cheek. "I'd certainly never introduce anyone into your household knowing he might cause trouble." Now her gaze flicked to Jake, who was obviously both amused and annoyed, and then back to Mrs. Lowery.  
  
"That's all right, kid," Mr. Lowery said. "I doubt we'll have any problems finding a swell dog like this a happy home."  
  
That was the moment when Laura's morality play went off script with a vengeance. Almost before Mr. Lowery had finished his last sentence, Inga Songaard swanned forward through the clusters of guests. Maybe she was tired of Laura hogging the spotlight, or maybe she was genuinely worried about Ducky.  
  
In either case, Miss Songaard placed an elegant hand on Ducky's head and said to him, in the most dramatic tones a famous enigma of the screen could muster, "There is no need to seek any further. I will be the one to take this noble animal away from his despair. I will deliver him to happiness."  
  
When he considered the evening later, Charlie realized Ducky's day had been even longer and rockier than his own had been. With the addition of this last dose of social drama, Ducky's cup suddenly overflowed. Obviously pained, he raised his head beneath Miss Songaard's hand before he looked over at Charlie and wailed.  
  
If anything, Miss Songaard seemed pleased by his dramatic response. "Yes, I shall take," she repeated to Ducky right as Charlie gave him a stern look, "Take and deliver."  
  
Perhaps Charlie should have been warned by Ducky's English nickname, but he hadn't been. Or perhaps he might have considered the constant problems of mistranslation that must extend to gundog commands. But he was still as surprised as everyone else when the overtaxed Weimaraner, obviously relieved to sort out words that made sense to him, obeyed.  
  
Ducky bounded forward, snatched up the teal decoy from the coffee table, dashed across the carpet, and plunged out through the open French doors into the garden.  
  
***  
  
For a few, critical seconds, surprise stilled the room. Displaying both his frankness and his swift wits, Jake was the first to speak.  
  
"I guess Ducky's taking and delivering," he said. Then, "Don't worry; I'll get it back," he added before he also exited into the darkness at full speed.  
  
Laura closed her mouth on whatever words she'd been about to speak, gazed meaningfully at Charlie, and then turned back to the social chaos just starting. Charlie dodged a line producer's wife to snatch the lead off the coffee table before heading outdoors himself.  
  
To be honest, he was perfectly happy to leave behind what was now a memorable party even by Hollywood standards. As he took the stairs from the veranda down to the back garden quicker than he should have, Charlie could clearly hear the Songaard woman through the open doors behind him. She was beginning what sounded like one doozie of a remorseful monologue. Crashing through bushes in the dark was a better way to spend his evening than listening to that.  
  
In the end, there wasn't much crashing to be done. The moon was at three-quarters, and Charlie could faintly hear what he assumed was Jake doing his own crashing somewhere up ahead of him. Charlie also heard some two-fingered whistles and shouts of "C'mere!" that probably wouldn't do any good. Rather than cursing the fact that those raised in Hell's Kitchen weren't taught the right words to stop a gundog carrying game, Charlie dodged around an oak tree and picked up his pace.  
  
They were circling around the house, which soon had Charlie emerging from the shadows beneath the trees and onto the north lawn. Once out into the open, he had to pause and listen harder for the sounds of passage, which left him further back in the chase. After several heartbeats of hesitation, he heard more noises and broke into a fast trot that took him past the tennis courts, across some gravel paths, and onto a grassy stretch between the pool and the paved front courtyard, where the attendants had been parking cars.  
  
He almost ran into Jake, who appeared from behind a Hispano Suiza to announce, "I lost him."  
  
"Make him…" A second or two to catch his breath and Charlie finished, "Make him find you." He straightened and called out into the darkness, "Ducky, stop! Halt! Whoa!"  
  
"Whoa?"  
  
"Let's hope they retrained his halt to something more common than his retrieve commands." Raising his voice again, Charlie tried, "Ducky, come!"  
  
At least that word got results. After a few seconds, Charlie heard movement from over by the pool before Ducky came trotting up to them. Without being told, Ducky sat, his posture as mournful as anything a Mor could manage.  
  
Charlie tried a stern look for a few seconds before giving up, sighing, and clipping on the lead. "You, sir, are a well-intentioned calamity," he told Ducky.  
  
"Nice to hear someone else told that for a change," Jake said, his grin as audible as it wasn't visible. Proving his ability to get back to the point, he added, "No decoy."  
  
"And no possibility of interrogating the courier. Now, if I was a tragic gundog, where would I drop off a fake duck?"  
  
"A _teal_ ," Jake said, and then, "Ouch!" when Charlie did jab him in the ribs this time. But Jake was also the one to say, "Well, he likes you. Me, too, I guess. And we drove him around all afternoon, not to mention the remaining bananas that may still be in the car."  
  
"Heel," Charlie told Ducky, and they went off to try their luck.  
  
Both coupes were parked right next to each other by the swimming pool. In the added light from the lanterns illuminating the pool's water, Jake delved into the open rumble seat of his roadster. Sure enough, he found the decoy.  
  
"Well, there's that." Charlie looked down at Ducky. "As for you. Get in. And you still can't have a banana."  
  
Back into the rumble seat went Ducky, showing every sign of relief.  
  
While Charlie secured the lead, Jake said, "At least I have a great excuse to leave early now. It's not like I wanted to spend more time around Mrs. Lowery after Laura not-so-subtly warned her off."  
  
"Will that cause you problems?"  
  
"Hell, no. It's amazing how you two believe my being lousy at faking also means I can't tell a lie or hide anything I'm feeling. The 'My dear, I think too much of you to let you dig your own grave any deeper' speech is easy to deliver, especially when it's true." Jake snorted. "And I first learned it from the master. At sixteen."  
  
Jake's reminder sparked a disturbing prickle of heat along Charlie's skin that made him change the subject. "I hope Mr. Lowery's gift wasn't damaged. I'm not sure if Ducky's breed is as soft-mouthed as retrievers."  
  
"Those lamps might help us check."  
  
They started toward the pool, and Ducky made a noise that threatened to evolve into another wail. Charlie sighed and doubled back.  
  
"Maybe if we give him something to do?" Jake hazarded.  
  
"Right." Charlie rummaged through dim memories. "Guard," he tried, hoping he sounded more certain than he felt.  
  
Ducky sat bolt upright, ears alert.  
  
Charlie shook his head. "Now you have an even better excuse to leave early since I'm not sure how, exactly, he guards. Let's examine this decoy and get back to the house before the birthday candles set fire to what's left of Lowery's party."  
  
"Don't worry. If we miss anything, someone will get pictures," Jake told him as they walked over to the nearest lamps at poolside.  
  
The lamps proved to be lanterns hung from wrought-iron poles set into the decorative tiling around the swimming pool's edges. These particular lanterns were positioned to also illuminate a chaise longue and the small table that went with it, so Jake had a place to put down the decoy. Beside them, the pool water shimmered and the colored tiles gleamed softly in the mixture of lamplight and moonlight. Their surroundings were a ridiculously romantic setting for examining a wooden duck – teal – for damage. Charlie rubbed his arms against another surge of that heat.  
  
"I see a tooth mark," Jake said mournfully.  
  
"Only the one, though. Remind me to check Ducky's teeth for damage later."  
  
Glancing up, Jake asked, "So you're going to keep him?" This time his grin was visible. "I don't know why I'm surprised."  
  
"Yes, I do seem to have a weakness for young rogues who are, at root, virtuous."  
  
"I guess that lets me out. I'm not sure how virtuous my root is."  
  
Charlie straightened slowly. "Not very. Although I never thought it was or would be. Nor did I want it to be."  
  
Jake also straightened, more abruptly. "You could've fooled me."  
  
"Oh, I did." Charlie hadn't even known he was going to move until he felt his own hand gripping Jake's chin. Fine stubble shifted beneath his fingertips as he said, "I truly believe I did fool you. But that's all over now. Do you want me?"  
  
It was Jake's look of astonishment at the question that destroyed the last shreds of Charlie's common sense. To hell with the setting, the timing, the need to ask carefully, all the long and aching years of restraint. He wanted Jake, and he wanted him now. "Come here. Closer to me."  
  
Ducky could have taken notes on proper obedience. Jake's lips parted slightly even as he stepped forward with obvious eagerness. Charlie tilted his head then and kissed Jake, first with a brief softness and then with all the sustained, aggressive skill he could bring to bear.  
  
Jake replied with a bruising grip across Charlie's back. Only his tongue, responding, was soft and languid. He tasted like lime juice and decent gin, smelled of a citrusy cologne, felt, with all those tensed muscles, as if he was restraining himself through willpower alone.  
  
Charlie didn't waste time. He had no patience left. Working a hand between them, he found the bulge in Jake's trousers and gripped the hardening cock through fine fabric. Jake freed his mouth to make a noise and Charlie told him, "Quiet, you. Be quiet and keep still."  
  
For a minute, Jake seemed about to tear loose, as he ran his hands frantically up and down Charlie's hips while leaning in for urgent, biting kisses. But then he pulled away and almost stumbled the foot or so backward need to reach the chaise longue. Reaching behind himself, Jake grabbed the tilted back with both hands, gripping so tightly that Charlie could see the strain against Jake's suit coat.  
  
Charlie paced forward before going down onto one knee in a way that might have been graceful. He truly didn't care. This time, when he found Jake's cock, he saw Jake grit his teeth. Charlie smiled. He shifted the cummerbund and starting undoing Jake's fly.  
  
Standing was overrated for cocksucking, but Charlie liked a challenge. After he'd freed what Jake had to offer from his drawers, he didn't part his lips at once. Instead Charlie leisurely nuzzled at hard, flushed flesh, enjoying the familiar smell of Jake's sweat combining with the unfamiliar, welcome scent of arousal. When he licked skin at last, Jake drew in a quick, sharp breath above him. The sound made Charlie press one hand flat against Jake's stomach above the cummerbund. He could already feel trembling beneath the dress shirt's fabric.  
  
"I'll probably, eventually, sodomize you," Charlie said, the words quiet and calm.  
  
Jake's eyes visibly widened, but he also nodded, twice.  
  
With his free hand, Charlie delved further into Jake's trousers, sliding fingertips along Jake's tightened balls through the muslin of his drawers. Then he measured out Jake's cock with his hand the way he'd considered doing for years. As he'd suspected, impressive.  
  
"Right now, I think I'll settle for sucking until you spend," Charlie told Jake. "In my mouth, mind you. Every bit."  
  
This time, Jake's nodding verged on frantic. Smiling at Jake, Charlie leaned forward and slowly confirmed Jake's measurements with his tongue.  
  
The noises Charlie made as he enjoyed himself might have been mistaken for lapping pool water, but the creak from the chaise longue a minute or two later was unmistakably Jake tightening his grip. Small signals of scent and touch told Charlie that Jake's climax was approaching.  
  
Leaning back once more, Charlie said, "Lovely, but this angle is terrible. Sit down." He was pleased when Jake managed to obey.  
  
When Charlie knelt between Jake's legs once more, he was done with leisure. He opened his mouth, tucked his lips over his teeth, and relentlessly claimed what was in front of him. As he worked his mouthful with suction and tongue, Charlie put a hand on each of Jake's hips to make clear exactly what was expected.  
  
The sex wasn't gentle, but Jake was desperately willing. He managed to keep quiet but only in theory; his breathing came in needy, ragged gasps and fabric slid on fabric as his hips worked. When he came, Jake had to choke back guttural noises as he spent. Then he sagged forward, almost draping himself over Charlie.  
  
This position was graceless, awkward to the edge of discomfort. Even so, Charlie blinked back a momentary stinging in his eyes to which he would never admit. Instead he reached out to firmly stroke his hands across Jake's suit jacket, along the small of Jake's back, until he felt the shudders beneath his fingers stilling. Then Charlie freed himself from the near embrace, leaned back onto his heels, and stretched his jaw. His view of a dissipated Jake was exquisite.  
  
For a few, heated seconds Charlie considered rolling Jake over on the chaise longue and hauling those dress trousers out of the way, but common sense reasserted itself. Instead, Charlie stood up, shifted the silk of his own cummerbund, and undid his fly. Working his cock free, he fisted himself a few times. Good Lord, he was close.  
  
At some point during all of this, Jake had sat up straight. Now he was watching intently. As Charlie tried thumbing the tip of his cock, Jake licked his lips before saying, "I…"  
  
Jake bit off the rest of his words, but Charlie smiled and nodded for him to continue.  
  
His voice rough and dark, Jake said, "I can try. I mean, I've already–"  
  
"Oh, yes," Charlie told him, stepping closer. "Try. Do."  
  
Taking a deep breath, Jake leaned in. As heat and wetness blessedly, if awkwardly, closed around him, Charlie tapped Jake's distending cheek with a forefinger. Somehow, he managed to say, voice hoarse, "Don't swallow. Later. You can impress me later." Then Charlie carefully, briefly fucked Jake's mouth, his grip the best mix of gentle and firm he could manage.  
  
Inexperienced but promising, so very promising, was Charlie's assessment later. At the time, all he could think about was how Jake's mouth felt and the sounds and the scent of what they were doing. He nearly didn't pull out soon enough, and Jake almost didn't let him go. There was a slightly sloppy interval that ended with Charlie spending while both his own hands and Jake's were entangled awkwardly around Charlie's cock. At some point, he left spunk on both Jake's shirt and skin. This only made Jake's eyes widen and his expression turn hungry again.  
  
Afterward, Jake's eyelids fluttered closed. His pulse was pounding at his throat where his bow tie had been yanked awry, and he was still breathing heavily. Jake's pomade had given up the ghost; his hair was a mess. His clothes were almost past saving. He had never seemed more appealing. Charlie recovered first, hauled Jake up onto his feet, and pulled him close.  
  
For a soothing interval they leaned together like that, their arms around each other. Charlie felt rumpled and sweaty but too pleased to move. The firmness of Jake's hands, the warmth of his skin against Charlie's, was deeply reassuring. So was the soft, wordless noise Jake was making, almost a hum. He sounded happy. Charlie stroked his hair.  
  
But even through their pleasant daze, they both heard the noise when Ducky started barking. They sprang apart. When Charlie turned, he saw flashes from an electric torch being waved around back toward the courtyard side of the parked cars. Obviously, someone was coming to search this area.  
  
***  
  
Charlie felt his eyes widen as he turned back to examine Jake. The evidence of what they'd been up to was unmistakable: rumpled hair, disarranged clothing, the spattering across Jake's collar… Was Charlie's fly still undone?  
  
Once more, swift wits saved the day. Even as Charlie's hands dropped to his trousers, Jake whirled, grabbed the decoy, took the few steps, and went into the swimming pool with a tremendous, graceless splash.  
  
Charlie sputtered. Then he dashed pool water from his face before hastily kneeling on the pool's edge. "Did you find it?" he called out loudly over all the thrashing noises, his hands busy.  
  
"Yes!" Jake yelled back, splashing more water around. "Where the hell is the ladder?"  
  
"To your right!" His suit was now officially ruined, but at least Charlie had managed to get his cummerbund back into place and run fingers through his hair. "Why didn't you just fish it out? Or find the ladder before you went in the hard way? This is my good suit!"  
  
"It was getting away!"  
  
"How could it get away? It's a wooden mallard! I mean, teal!"  
  
Jake just splashed some more, deliberately this time, the monster.  
  
Two of the attendants galloped up to the pool. The taller, the one he'd bribed earlier, anxiously asked Charlie, "Can he swim?" A nice youngster.  
  
"Supposedly," Charlie told him, sounding resigned even to his own ears. "But perhaps you could give him a hand getting out? He found Mr. Lowery's antique decoy. It looks like the dog returned the counterfeit teal to its natural habitat, a counterfeit pond."  
  
The shorter attendant with the flashlight was the only one who snickered, but at least they both made haste to assist Jake. By the time he was out of the pool, Jake looked a lot less like a satiated lover and a lot more like a half-drowned sable.  
  
"Help me dry off the decoy," Jake told them as he emerged, and damned if he didn't manage to tie up everyone for a few more minutes with a search for towels in the pool house. Well after the ineffectual dabbing, when they all trooped back onto the veranda at last, there was an air of the successful safari about their group that made trysting the last image that would come to anyone's mind.  
  
However, Laura seemed to be the exception proving that rule. After they sent the attendants inside with the decoy, she came out to speak with Charlie and Jake. She studied them in the light from the open French doors, and her eyebrows rose dramatically. But all she asked was, "Are you two coming in or do you mean to stand there dankly?"  
  
"I think we'd better head back to your place, so we can change," Jake told her. "Good thing for my upholstery that I keep a couple of driving rugs rolled up in the rumble seat."  
  
She shrugged. "It's not as if the Lowerys wouldn't provide a place for you to dry off more thoroughly, even considering the tooth mark. After all, your adventures added plenty of vim to their party." They could all hear the laughter and lively conversation from inside as the attendants answered the guests' questions.  
  
Charlie said, "Nonetheless, I'd hate to squelch pool water across their parquetry, not to mention those rather fine carpets."  
  
"So you'll be taking Ducky home instead of me?" Laura asked him.  
  
"I'm afraid so."  
  
"As well as my errant brother."  
  
"That does seem to be what I'm proposing, yes."  
  
"Why not? He's going to share my house, so he'll eventually be stuck with me anyhow," Jake said, and elbowed Charlie in the ribs. As Charlie eyed him balefully, Jake ignored the look to blithely ask his sister, "Will you give Fran a ride?"  
  
"If she needs one. She may have other plans for her evening." Laura studied them one last time. "I suppose you do, too."  
  
"Oh, you bet," Jake said, walking right into it. "I want to get out of these clothes."  
  
Laura unmistakably smirked. "When it comes to gritty specifics, feel free to spare my nerves, Brother Dear."  
  
"What?" Jake was indignant. "I'm soaked. I think I lost a shirt stud in the pool, and I ruined my evening suit. Are you really implying–"  
  
Even as Jake was speaking, Charlie took his arm and dragged him off toward the stairs to the garden. "Enjoy the rest of the party, Laura," Charlie called back over his shoulder.  
  
She only laughed, lovely and lyric as ever.  
  
"And she calls me a stinker," Jake said, still simmering. "See if I fetch any more wooden ducks for her."  
  
"Wooden _teals_ ," Charlie told him. He let go of the arm to move in closer and put a hand on Jake's shoulder. Even with the wet fabric between them as they walked, Jake still felt warm and strong beneath his grasp.  
  
Jake laughed. "You and teal, a match made somewhere or other. Am I looking at a house filled with fancy blue-green pillows? We could get a family discount from Tildon." He paused. "Are we lost?"  
  
"No, there's the tennis courts. Just as well. I'm done with the out-of-doors for the evening. I want my bed."  
  
"That's great. I want your bed, too."  
  
Charlie considered another elbow jab before shaking his head. You couldn't blame anyone for desiring what you desired so much yourself. "Oh, well. At least I didn't make a hotel reservation."  


**Author's Note:**

> This was originally published commercially through a small press, but all rights have reverted. Given the obvious fannish influences and tropes, it seemed possible to post it here. I hope you enjoy!


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